


The Sunrise At No Charge

by R_Quarion



Category: L.A. Noire
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Behavior, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gentlemen Kissing, God the 1940s was a year for fashion huh, Hickeys, Imma say Gentlemen, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Out, Mentions of PTSD, No erasing or romantising PTSD, Poetry, Self-Discovery, War Themes, he nurses it back to life, im founder of the Stefan Support Squad, mans looks after a plant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Quarion/pseuds/R_Quarion
Summary: Phelps and Bekowsky, partners in Traffic, decide to redefine the term 'partners'.Phelps figures out some things about himself that he had never expected...~ ~ ~"Pretty, isn't it?"Bekowsky took a drag of the smoke, smirking before blowing it into the morning breeze."I meant you."
Relationships: Stefan Bekowsky/Cole Phelps
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	The Sunrise At No Charge

This was typically not how Cole Phelps  _ did things _ . Code and conduct had regulated his life for as long as he could remember. Precision ruled his inner monologue and perfectionism clawed at every choice he made. Deep down past the human flesh and muscle, the bone and its marrow, Phelps was constructed from a burning desire to prove himself. 

So, to say that his current circumstances were not to his usual self would be _far_ from _far-fetched_. 

"Phelps, we won't need to show our badges. And if anyone asks, which they won't, we'll just say we had a lead on Traffic and had to hire out a room."  
Bekowsky had an attitude on him that drove Phelps mad. A touch of counterintuitive, careful carelessness and almost cataclysmic charisma. He held himself with pride and walked the streets not as if he owned them, but as if he cared for them dearly. Only to express it through tough love. Bekowsky’s perfection could be found in his pride. Phelps envied that and, on occasion, appreciated the trait.   
What Phelps  _ didn't  _ appreciate was when Bekowsky's attitude got him into situations he hadn't planned on. Hiring out a motel room for a night didn't make sense in regard to Traffic leads but Bekowsky was set on the idea that it would be a flawless plan. Phelps would argue further but before he knew it, they were in their room with Bekowsky unbuttoning Phelps' suit jacket. 

Phelps had awoken that following morning to a breeze on his skin. Lying front down, cheek on the corner of the pillow and sheets halfway down his bare back. Rolling over slowly, he let out a small moan. There was a distinct chill to the wind and, with it, carried the scent of smoke.  Rubbing his blurry eyes with his knuckles, Phelps squinted through the adjustment to the morning light until he could see properly. If there was a god, Phelps would be thankful to him for the sight he was given. Bekowsky reclining in a small chair from the almost-undersized table, with his back turned to Phelps. Still without his shirt and only his high-waisted, white underwear. Legs propped up against the handrail where a little plant found itself dehydrated from neglectful prior clients. On one hand, Bekowsky held a cigarette. Smoke was carried out into the streets of Los Angeles where it could be accompanied with morning traffic and petty trouble. 

"Morning to you too, Phelps." Bekowsky barely turned his head around to make the comment. Taking another puff from the smoke and blowing it into the wind.   
"Bekowsky." He was too distracted to really care for his own tone. Bekowsky was a sight. Golden highlights rippled off his shoulders and glimmered from strands of hair.   
"Sore?" Oh that smug tone was much too familiar. Phelps tried to say no but instead, his lie caught up to him. He let out a groan and Bekowsky chuckled. Then he took another drag of the cigarette, "you asked for it Cole... begged for it,  _ actually _ ."

That he had. 

"How long have you been awake for?" Phelps asked, throwing his legs over the side of the bed. Muscles aching in a way they hadn't before. Scratching the back of his neck, he caught a glance at the bruises on his inner thighs. A shiver ran down his spine despite the warmth in the draft.   
"Since the sun started rising." Bekowsky blew smoke into the air again, turning his head slightly to look at Phelps. Reaching his free hand out behind him.  It was a sight that Phelps wouldn't forget easily. Bekowsky sitting on the balcony, half turned and hand out-streched. Smoke wafting from his cigarette, legs crossed and kicked up. Backdrop of pastel pinks and clouds highlighted in orange and yellows. 

Phelps' entangled his fingers with Bekowsky's as he pulled Phelps closer so he stood behind him. Arms draped over Bekowsky's shoulders, he tilted his head back to rest on Phelps' stomach. Trailing his hands along Bekowsky's toned front. Nuzzling his nose into the short, dark hair and looking out into Los Angeles.   
"Thought you'd be here, Phelps?" He passed Phelps the cigarette, humming softly as smoke was blown out into the early morning. Streets were picking up movement, cars and wanderers were bringing life into where golden rays began to replace artificial lights. The radio beside Bekowsky sung soft words that Phelps had heard during their drive to scenes. 

_ He says murder, he says, every time we kiss,  
_ _ He says murder, he says, at a time like this,  
He says murder, he says, is that the language of love… _

It was then that Phelps smiled to himself. With Bekowsky’s hand holding his arm, watching the watercolour sunrise.   
"Not like this, no… it's beautiful…"  
Phelps was referring to the rising sun, basking the roads in all its glory. Bekowsky looked golden in such a luminance, shadows casted by muscles and brunette hair seemingly alight.   
"So are you." Bekowsky hummed as he took the cigarette back.   
Phelps had felt more content in that exact moment then he could recall for the past… few  _ years _ . That in itself was a guess. Time after the war had become distorted for Phelps, for many marines. Finding one's place after such a confronting time was no easy matter. Things at home had been nearly unbearably tense. 

Phelps' work was tense too, without a doubt, but tense in a way that he was able to help. On the other hand, Bekowsky was polar opposite. Bekowsky was surrounded by no distortion of time, no prior judgements, no stigma. Phelps was able to build himself up in front of Bekowsky the way he never could with anyone else. A fresh start, almost. 

"Should get a start on the day?" Bekowsky asked, ash sizzling to a halt as Bekowsky stood from where he sat, putting out the cigarette and leaving it in the ashtray. Still holding onto him, Bekowsky took a few steps past and spun Phelps into the room. Hands moving to rest on Phelps' bare chest,  "shouldn't we?"  
Phelps only hummed, bottom lip between his teeth and hands sliding over Bekowsky's waist.   
"You're not making it easy to focus on the prospect of work." Phelps couldn't keep his eyes off him. Slim and toned, smile shining brighter than the morning light, half naked and shamelessly running his hands over Phelps.   
"Oh, have I managed to crack through the impenetrable walls of LAPD's Golden Boy?" Bekowsky cocked his head, smiling so smugly that Phelps couldn't help but laugh lightly at how endearing it was.   
"Shut up Stefan."  
"Make me."  
Phelps tightened his grip on Bekowsky's waist and pulled him into a kiss. Deep, longing, a hint of tobacco. The soft noises from Phelps made Bekowsky smirk against his lips,  
"Seeing you makes me damn near insatiable, Phelps." Bekowsky told him, hands still flat on Phelp's bare chest, “but I need a coffee. We both do. By the time on the clock I’ve been conveniently ignoring until now, we should get moving.”

Phelps was nearly dressed before Bekowsky made a harsh  _ tssk  _ noise that almost made him jump.   
“What?” He hissed at his partner who was still nearly bare and making coffee. Phelps cringed internally a bit, worrying he may burn himself.   
“Do that last.” Bekowsky nodded in his general direction.  _ Vague _ .  
“What?” He repeated, about to button up the first button of his shirt,  
“ _ That _ . Stay just as you are.” Bekowsky insisted as Phelps looked down at himself. Long-sleeved white shirt unbuttoned and tie hanging loose around his neck. Pants and shoes on, his suit jacket hanging by the door with Bekowsky’s.   
“Is that a command, partner?” Phelps teased as he sauntered over to stand beside Bekowsky.   
“You wish… so, we'll just say we met up before work?" Bekowsky shrugged, seeming not bothered by the implications of it. "We're partners. Where's the problem?,  
"Partners…" Phelps repeated, furrowing his brow at the framework of the term.   
"It's a subjective value." Bekowsky smirked, handing Phelps his coffee. "Oh, before we go!"  
Phelps watched, puzzled, at Bekowsky's sudden movements back towards the kitchen. Filling a glass of water up to the brim, he went back over to the balcony. Phelps cracked a smile. One of the wide kinds of smiles, with teeth showing and crinkles forming around one's eyes, as he watched Bekowsky water the plants. Such a generous soul. So protective of that which struggled to protect itself. 

Phelps was neglecting the part of his heart that was hanging heavy at the idea of the consequences of any of this. There was no need for threats between the two of them. Here and now, whatever was passing between them, would never leave that hotel room. Sure enough; word of it never left those doors once they were locked behind them. 

In saying that, shame and regret threatened to sweep Phelps off his feet on occasion when he found himself watching Bekowsky more on their day to day. The excited look on Bekowsky’s face at the prospect of a new lead, the way he watched the city while they drove, the rhythmic tapping of his foot over and over to a beat of a song that Phelps had never heard before. God forbid but sometimes he would sing. Soft, slow, whispers of syllables and Phelps would always smile,   
“How can you remember those words?” Phelps asked, genuinely curious.   
“The same way you can remember your poetry, philosophy and frankly confusing organized language.”   
“You mean pragmatics?” Phelps cursed to himself at the rain that had started to fall.   
Bekowsky snapped his fingers, pointed and winked.   
“Ya got it. You always get me.” That had made Phelps twitch a little in face of the strange warmth spreading in his chest, “go on Cole, recite me a poem. I bet you can.”   
“No, I---”   
“Come on… I sing for you.” Stefan’s tone was riddled in teasing, Phelps flinched slightly as a car pulled out in front of them suddenly   
“ _ Oh _ you sing for  _ me _ do you?” He scoffed, feeling Bekowsky’s gaze burning into him,   
“Come on Cole. You’re much more interesting than the radio.”   
“Oh you do know how to make a girl feel special, don’t you Bekowsky?” Phelps nearly,  _ nearly _ , poked his tongue out at his partner. Silence washed over the car in the moments that followed. Bekowsky knew not to push Phelps and so, he had contently returned to watching the streets as they drove. Hand outstretched into the evening air, fingers catching rain droplets where they fell. Inside, Phelps felt a tinge of regret. He took a quick breath and he was letting the air leave his lungs and words slip his lips before he could stop them.

_ “And we thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities,  
_ _ Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees;  
_ _ -Yet thought softly, morosely of them, and as indifferently,  
_ _ As of ourselves or those whom we,  
_ _ For years have loved, and will again,  
_ _ Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain,  
_ _ Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain..” _

Bekowsky knew how privy he had just been, he had begun to hold his breath at a mere two sentences in. Once the poem’s story clicked with him, he had been rendered speechless. The sheer meaning of that interaction was one he would never forget. Phelps never spoke of the war, never had he uttered a word about his own experience. Bekowsky never dared ask, either. But in their stunned silence, was something else.    
“Beautiful.” Bekowsky whispered, rubbing his fingers together, thinning out the water that was dripping between them. _He hadn’t meant the poem._

“Any Central unit, a 415, possible mental case at the Corner of Ninth and Grand. Unit to handle, Code Three identify.”  
Phelps picked up in an instant and Bekowsky shut his mouth. Clamped it, nearly. Zip, throw away the key.   
“This is car 11K, we'll handle the 415...”

The plan to hire a room for  _ one  _ night ended up happening many more times then Phelps could ever have considered. Code and conduct.  _ That _ was supposed to construct his being. A mantle, to hold his self perspective in place. It was when Bekowsky was paying that Phelps thought of those values.  _ Code and conduct, code and conduct _ . They could not have been any more against code and conduct within their intimacy.

Phelps had never had a problem with the idea of homosexuality. He had seen men find comfort in one another during the war. Some deemed it against the wishes of God. Phelps challenged that idea a step forward…  _ if there were a God, why would he allow that war to begin with?  _ But he did hold some faith in him. Challenging those adjacent thoughts much further always gave him a headache. He had seen too much, heard too much, lived through too much, to hold faith in a divine being so close. So, he turned his faith to people.  _ That’s _ where the code and conduct slapped him upside the face. When he thought of how he and Bekowsky’s complex relationship would play out if someone were to uncover the truth. They’d lose their jobs.

_ Code and conduct _ , yet, mornings in the motel followed no such things. It was in these mornings that Phelps’ memories of waking to sudden danger was coming to co-exist with the view of the sunrise. Not replace, no. The war may have ended but Phelps’ battle continued on. Only now, mornings of gunshots and smoke were accommodating  _ new _ memories of smoke from Bekowsky’s cigarettes and not gunshots, no, but the backfire of cars. A reality where things were easier and, at the same time, not. Things remained unsettled, in spite of code and conduct. Phelps was learning to curse at the thought of it.

"There will come a day where I will miss this… I fear that day…" Bekowsky said so softly that the early morning traffic was nearly louder to Phelps. He'd had to strain to hear such a sad sentiment. This particular morning; Phelps had lost count.  _ This  _ was all a part of his conduct now.  
"Miss what?" Phelps asked, a part of him deep down desperate to know the answer. To understand Bekowsky's framework of all  _ this…  _ to what extent did the motel room feel like a home for him? Because as much as Phelps hated the prospect, the motel room was manifesting a meaning of something else entirely. It was not  _ just _ a room for rent. It was a safe haven where Phelps could breathe and watch Bekowsky nurse a plant back to health. There was a strange metaphor buried there, Phelps knew it. He couldn’t place the words in the way he wished.

"I'll miss the view."   
Phelps looked over to the sunrise. They'd seen many together by this point but all were different in their beauty. Some, the first few times, were azure backdrops to the lightest clouds. Mere wisps of white spotted across the sky’s canvas. Some were the opposite of that. With sapphire only appearing in flecks between rolling waves of clouds. When those clouds grew heavier, the sunrise gave them a greyscale gradient. Splits in those waves casting direct rays, golden and radiant. Other times, the sky was pastel in nature. Softest of apricot shades fading into heather, seeping with lilac into shades of peaches. Clouds alight with splashes of flame orange, sometimes too bright to look at directly.  
"Pretty, isn't it?"  
Bekowsky took a drag of the smoke, smirking before blowing it into the morning breeze.   
"I meant you."   
God forbid Phelp's cheeks mirror the thulian of the sky. 

Bekowsky stood from where he'd sat. Outstretching his arms, yawning and laying his hands on the railing bar. Phelps was only slightly hypnotized by the ripple of muscle, the broadness of his shoulders. The little clink of his belt buckle hitting the handrail. That snapped Phelps back into reality,  
"Stefan, don't stand there, people could see you!"  
Bekowsky chuckled at the panic on Phelps' face.   
"Am I not a sight to see?" He opened his arms as if to put himself on display, nearly silhouetted by the sun.   
"Yes, yes you are, just--" Phelps grabbed his hand and pulled him closer, laughing just a tad, "someone might see you."  
"Mmm and you want me for your eyes only?" Bekowsky pushed him back into the room, kissing at his neck. Phelps eyelids lowered slightly, bottom lip between his teeth.   
"I might just…" 

Something had awoken in Phelps in that exact moment. Money was always advertised to buy happiness. Beautiful jewelry for a dame. Drinks at a bar. The next song in the club. Flowers for an apology. A proper suit, one like Roy would wear and flaunt as if it put him on a pillar. Money bought those things. The code and conduct of business men. But here, with Bekowsky sitting on his lap and kissing the (rising) daylight out of him, Phelps realized that money didn't help one feel content. 

That the sunrise, after all, was free.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so,,, here goes my spiral into Phelpkowsky content. God save my soul.  
> Of course, despite how uncomfortable it may make me to write, some views and perceptions written here are adjacent to the time-frame L.A. Noire is set in. They don't reflect my own personal views.  
> Lemme know how I did, if you want any more? Either or. Or neither. :)  
> Song is '"Murder" He Says' - Dinah Shore  
> Poem is 'All Day it Has Rained'- Alun Lewis  
> Huge thanks to my no 1 homie for putting up with my rambling which lead to this fic


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